Stepping Backward
by kraftykathy
Summary: Sherlock Holmes had always underestimated Molly Hooper. She was more than frumpy clothes, cat blogs and school girl crushes. So much more! After her selfless sacrifice, Sherlock must search her past to answer this question; who was Molly Hooper? The answers could bring her justice, but he might just lose himself on the journey.
1. Chapter 1

**_This story is not a crossover, however, I was inspired by Six Feet Under and I love the idea that Molly might have been raised in a family run funeral home. There will be one incident in this story that is very obviously inspired by that show. I hope some of you may enjoy this story in spite of it's very grim tone. It's very, very Sherlolly - so much of that to come! Disclaimer - I don't own the Sherlock characters and this is not for profit_**

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><p><em>So I come back to say this good-by,<em>

_A sort of ceremony of my own,_

_This stepping backward for another glance._

_(Stepping Backward for Another Glance- Adrienne Rich)_

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><p>"An agreement has been reached. You have nothing to fear. Soon you will be home and you can put all of this behind you, nothing more than an unpleasant memory."<p>

"Not entirely unpleasant." She smiled at him.

"No. Not entirely." He agreed, his voice barely more than a whisper.

The armed men pulled her away, more insistently now, shoving her towards the exit.

"I'm not scared, Sherlock." Molly said as she was pushed out the door. "Remember that, okay? I'm not scared at all."

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><p>The image was grainy, unfocused at times, with a yellow hue cast on everything from a combination of poor lighting and a cheap camera. At first, it was just a pair of eyes. They were brown, that much could be observed, despite the poor quality of the picture. The angle widened until a face filled the monitor. One more adjustment and finally the camera stopped zooming out. The picture became a little sharper, as the image settled on the head and upper body of the owner of the brown eyes, finally making clear the identity of the person; Molly Hooper.<p>

She was crying, not just crying but sobbing openly, without shame. She was speaking, but there was no audio to accompany the video. Tears streamed down her face as if she was nothing more than a conduit for the ocean to flow through at a steady trickle. Her nose was running too, and when she spoke her face expressed such terrible sorrow.

Minutes passed before the screen went dark and a new image appeared.

This one depicted a woman flanked by two men dressed in black militaristic style clothing and army boots. They led the woman, her hands cuffed in front of her – they were shaking violently, apparent even at this greater distance - to a stone wall and there they seemed to be talking to her at length, instructing her on where and how to stand judging by the gestures they made as they spoke.

But the gestures went unseen by the woman. Her face was obscured by a dark fabric sack pulled over her head, but the dress was the same one Molly had worn in the video where she had cried and begged. Now she clasped her cuffed hands together as if in prayer and stood by that wall on shaking legs.

The men walked away, beyond the view of the camera, which zoomed in on the figure of the lone woman, before widening again and then it panned left to reveal a squad of ten men, also clad in black uniforms. They held light semi-automatic military rifles at their sides. Without audio, no orders could be heard, but when they moved, it was as if they were one. They hoisted their rifles, balancing the butt of the guns on shoulders, and in unison they opened fire.

When the camera panned back to the right, it revealed the small woman collapsed to the ground in a lifeless heap and the screen went black.

Sherlock awoke with a start, his heart hammering and his breath coming in short gasps.

It was the same dream that haunted him every time he closed his eyes, ever since he had found himself returned to 221B, three days ago with no sign as to how he had arrived there. And Molly was gone, not a trace of her remained in London. The last time he had set eyes on her was to see her led away from the cell they had shared for several days.

There was only the video file. He had only that and the memory of what she had done for him. How could he have been so wrong about Molly Hooper? How had he so seriously underestimated this woman?

And yet, it was something Sherlock Holmes had always done with the important people in his life. He only took in the parts of their lives that intersected with his own. The value of a person lay only in their actions in the moment. This was sometimes a positive. He could easily disregard a persons past as long as they had proven to be loyal in the present. But he also had a tendency to dismiss large chunks of his friends lives that he deemed unimportant. Because of this, he missed so much of who these people truly were.

There was so much he missed when he reduced friends to a handful of traits that he observed in his quick assessment, as he had in the case of Molly Hooper.

Yes, he had underestimated her.

He had always, always done so. Even after all the times she had helped him, he still had not really understood that Molly Hooper was more than frumpy clothes, and cat blogs and school girl crushes.

Even though he understood and respected her skill at her job and secretly liked her gallows humour, he somehow had missed the essence of just who was Molly Hooper. And she was more than these hand full of quirks and traits that Sherlock had become accustomed to over the years. She was so much more!

And so, Sherlock Holmes was determined to answer this question; who was Molly Hooper?

He sat on a train heading for Northampton and watched the houses as they slipped past, through the window.

Eight days ago Sherlock had thought he had come to terms with his own fate as he sat aboard a small plane taking him to his certain (if Mycroft was right, and he always was) demise. He thought he had pulled off a convincing performance in making his farewell to his best friend. He had made it vague as to whether he would ever return, obfuscating the fact of his imminent death.

Of course John Watson wasn't a complete idiot. He knew that the situation was grim, but he understood that he was powerless to change what was happening other than to undo the only good things that had come of all this; Magnussen's death and Mary Watson's life.

And so he had boarded the plane, flashing the Watsons one of his rare genuine smiles and took his seat as the plan taxied down the runway. It was to his great surprise to find the plane banking immediately after take off, to return to the air strip they had just left below.

It was Moriarty.

Or so it seemed. The video footage was obviously a poor attempt at showing a miraculously returned-from-the-dead Moriarty, with the use of old video footage. Anyone could have done that, it was amateurish at best. The thing that was not as simple, however was the fact that it was broadcast on every television in the country. Hardly something an amateur would be capable of, as it would take a clever mind and some serious funding to accomplish this.

Mycroft's first course of action was to send units to potential targets. Molly Hooper was high on that list. It was no longer a secret that it had been she who had helped Sherlock fake his death. That, and the fact that Jim from IT had turned out to be Moriarty, that he had used Molly to get to Sherlock only increased the likelihood that she would be a target for retaliation.

It was the beginning of the end for Molly Hooper, for when they arrived at Barts, she was already gone. Sherlock had shocked everyone in his frenzy to find the pathologist. He sent his white flag, so to speak, up on his blog and as he hoped, the reply came instantly.

And so he had found himself tossed unceremoniously into the back of a van and rendered unconscious by a noxious fume delivered via cloth over his nose and mouth, only to awaken some time later on a narrow cot in a damp stone cell, where he now shared accommodations with his abducted pathologist.

A brief series of events had led them to the most dire circumstances imaginable.

Sherlock had been kept under heavy sedation as he was forced to watch Molly's apparent execution on a lap top monitor, kept conscious only to observe his terrible failings. The next thing he had known, he had come out of a drug haze at Baker street, a USB drive was in his pocket with a video file of Molly's sad fate.

Moriarty - and it was indeed Moriarty - had assured him that there were enough clues contained in these files that it should lead directly to his capture. He called it his little gift for playing the game. A consolation prize, for certainly he was no victor.

Sherlock had stared at the monitor until his eyes blurred. He wanted to believe it was exhaustion that impaired his vision. If his eyes were damp it was only due to the burning brought on by hours of trying desperately to decipher clues contained within the pictures, the pictures that made something in his chest burn.

_I will burn the heart out of you._

Molly's tear stained face making her pleas that went unheard. The small trembling figure led to the wall. Her collapsed form, nothing but a heap of lifeless rags on the ground. Where was the key?

Emotional attachment was not a help and most certainly it was a weakness. Molly would be alive now if Sherlock cared nothing for her. If she meant nothing to him she never would have been chosen as a tool to manipulate the consulting detective. He could admit that Molly had found a place of importance in his life and he had yet to truly discover the full meaning of the loss.

The only thing that spurred him on now was the thought of wrapping his hands around Moriarty's neck and squeezing the life out of him. But to do that he needed to clear his thoughts. Emotions clouded thinking and he needed clarity of the mind.

He squeezed his eyes shut blinking away the useless moisture gathered there. Willing his mind to clear of the clutter of unhelpful thoughts, ones where he imagined a different outcome where Molly walked away and Sherlock stood in front of the firing squad instead, the way it was meant to play out. But he couldn't undo the past and so such thoughts were entirely counterproductive. He swept them away for the moment and concentrated, focusing all of his superior brain power on the task at hand.

He opened his eyes and watched once more. There was Molly crying and pleading. Her cheeks were wet with tears and her nose was running. Her hair was falling out of the plait she was wearing. The monitor was a close up of her head and shoulders and he could make out the red dress and tan cardigan she was wearing. The dress had tiny buttons up the front, the two topmost buttons were open. She wore no earrings, but she did wear a tiny silver crucifix around her neck on a fine chain.

The next image was not as close a view. The screen showed her whole body. She wore the same clothes. A black bag obscured her head and her hair fell about her shoulders. The plait must have fallen out because her hair was now loose.

The men that flanked her, set her by the wall and spoke their instructions to her. She turned and the camera closed in for a second before zooming out and panning left.

And then Sherlock saw it. It might mean nothing but then again . . .

Her necklace was gone. He was certain of that.

A crucifix, Why did she wear it? He had noticed it in the past and thought it a bit odd because he knew that Molly wasn't a religious person. So it had to be a gift from someone she had been close to, close enough for her to attach a larger importance than some ambivalent spirituality.

A lover? No, a crucifix wouldn't be the first choice of a romantic interest for someone like Molly. A relative? Such as her father?

She had spoken of him once and it was clear that their relationship was a close one, before he had died.

It hadn't taken long for Sherlock to dig around Molly's past.

It was both revealing and yet unsurprising.

Molly Hooper's father had owned a family run funeral home in Northampton. Interesting! It was clearly where Molly had found her comfort amongst the dead. He could imagine her lurking the corridors of a home that echoed the constant call of death.

And so he had begun his journey to discover who Molly Hooper was and in doing so perhaps he might find his way to finally capture Moriarty.

And when he did it would be to his delight to wrap his hands around the man's neck and squeeze the life out of him.


	2. Chapter 2

_**I'm so glad to see the favs and follows and reviews - thank you so much - I was wondering if I was heading into a territory that was just too morbid but maybe it's not entirely a turn off? It's dark, but hopefully we will get to see Sherlock learn about his suppressed emotions. It's a good setting for that to happen. Warning - there will be detailed descriptions of embalming and death and forensics. Disclaimer - I own nothing and it's not for profit.**_

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><p><em>The event might draw your stature in my mind<em>

_I should be forced to look upon you whole_

_The way we look upon the things we lose._

_(Stepping Backward – Adrienne Rich)_

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><p>Sherlock disembarked at the Northampton station and arranged for a rental car. He would be in the city for several days and wanted the freedom to travel without hindrance. He held up his mobile to look at the map to Hooper's Funeral Home and Services, as he threw his bag into the back seat of the car. He got behind the wheel and merged into the evening traffic. Physically, he was moving forward, but he was mentally preparing to take a step back. A step back into Molly's past.<p>

He located Hooper's Funeral Home easily enough. The street was lined with spacious Victorian homes with mature trees that would provide a cooling shade in the summer. Now the branches were devoid of leaves and looked skeletal against the gray winter dusk.

The Hooper house stood in the centre of a large corner lot and Sherlock pulled up to the kerb and parked. He got out of the car and walked along the stone path through the yard. Sherlock noted the expansive grounds and even he had to admit that in the summer, the garden would be impressive. It was possible that the owners hired a dedicated gardener, but this looked like the work of someone who truly loved the chore. Each bed was carefully tended to, plants properly pruned, dead headed and put to rest for the winter.

Though Sherlock was not the type to wax poetic, he somehow found this a graceful eloquence, befitting the business.

The building was old and rambling, as one might expect of a residence of it's intended purpose. The hearse was parked in the driveway and the parking lot was full. Sherlock looked at the structure and thought about Molly growing up in such a home. This might be a place where others came to terms with the reality of their drastically altered lives, but it was also a place that Molly Hooper had grown and played and learned. How did the experience mould her as a person? How did it impact her thoughts and ambitions? Some of that, Sherlock could easily deduce, but other aspects were shrouded in mystery that he hoped to discover.

Sherlock ascended the steps of the expansive porch and faced the large green doors. Before he could raise a hand to ring the doorbell, it opened and several people dressed in black stepped out to light cigarettes. Even mourners were not exempt from smoking restrictions, it seemed.

Sherlock slipped into the warm interior of the house and found himself in an impressive lobby. The most notable feature was the cathedral ceiling towering grandly over him. He turned to look at the door he had just passed through and appreciated the stain glass window above. In the daylight it would be aglow with a colourful light that would reflect rainbow patches on the rust coloured carpet.

A large curving staircase of polished wood led, no doubt, to the living quarters above.

To his immediate left was a room, bustling with the activity of a visitation in progress. Just within the arched door a couple embraced sharing comfort in their sorrow. Sherlock looked upon this with curiosity. For years that kind of grief and comfort seemed so beyond him, like some alien custom he could only observe, without understanding. His brother would remind him that the ability to feel such pain was not an advantage. But something was shifting in him. He had watched John suffer when he thought he had lost his best friend. And hadn't he found himself ready to throw away his own life if it meant he could prevent the loss of theirs?

He felt. He didn't yet have the ability to put it into words, but certainly he felt.

Mourners moved in and out of the room, speaking in hushed tones. He gave a brief thought to Molly's family. They were going through their own period of grieving, as they continued to care for others in their time of need. How could they manage that, he wondered? If they were full of feelings like these people here tonight, how could they continue as care providers and not run crying at the injustice of losing there youngest member?

A condolence book lay open on an ornate table. Sherlock gave it a brief glance, before moving to the room on the right. It was a second visitation room, unused at the moment.

He entered the darkened space and found a light switch, flicking it on as he passed. The room was tastefully decorated in ornate wood moulded etchings, painted white. The unadorned walls were a soft pale blue. The dais at the front of the room where the casket would lay was empty, covered in a heavy velvet cloth, also of white. There were a few vases with flower arrangements to provide decoration, placed there by the owners, though the funeral guests would supply the majority of the blooms.

But for now, the room was empty, a blank slate on which the future occupants would write upon it, the story of their sorrow and loss, the story of life ended, the last page of their tale, closing the cover with heavy finality. It was a difficult task to prevent it from invoking feelings that one natural associates with funeral homes, to internalize it and make it personal. And Sherlock found his thoughts drifting back to Molly and the impact of her loss. This room no longer felt like a place she might have played hide and seek in as a child. Instead Sherlock saw her in a box, a white one, lined in silky bedding, her haired draped across the satin pillow and hands folded neatly across her chest.

Why did that image make it hard for him to breathe? Sherlock Holmes did not fear death. It was a natural conclusion of life, one could hardly escape. It was pointless to linger on loss beyond a brief feeling of regret at the lost potential. Why did he feel like she had been torn from his chest, like she was an organ he had not known existed, but needed for survival. Ridiculous!

He stood there, lost in his thoughts until a sound at the door brought him back to awareness. A woman stood in the doorway. Her resemblance to Molly was strong though she was significantly older.

"Mr. Holmes?" She hesitated by the door.

"Ah yes." Sherlock approached the woman, straightening his stance to his full height, pulling together his look of cold confidence, the proper attitude to assume when interviewing people with the purpose of gathering evidence.

"You would be Mrs Hooper." He held out a hand to her and she shook it briefly.

"Yes. Was your train early? We were expecting you later this evening."

"I took an earlier train."

"Why don't we go upstairs, Mr Holmes. Sometimes our guests wander these rooms in search of a private place to grieve."

Mrs Hooper was outfitted in a simple navy dress, appropriate funeral attire. Sherlock supposed one must maintain an image, living in a funeral home and he wondered again what it was like for Molly growing up here in a place where one must be sombre and quiet, well dressed and well behaved? And why had he not observed a life drenched in the tears of strangers showing on her skin like a stain? It should have been more obvious!

The kitchen of the Hooper residence was less austere than the lower floor. It was a place that looked as well loved as the garden outside. In fact the evidence of the gardener made a strong appearance in the room. The wide window sill was filled with potted plants, both flowers and herbs. Hanging plants trailed tendrils over door frames and arches. Every shelf sported some type of greenery, lending cheer and warmth to the room.

Sherlock sat at the heavy wooden table, worn from years of polishing and shining, and he observed Mrs Hooper plugged in the electric kettle and prepared a pot for the tea. She was a woman that wore sorrow, deep in the lines of her face. It was the way she pursed her lips as though she was holding back an age of unspoken grievances. It was very unlike Molly who had always appeared the very definition of cheerful.

But was that the real Molly or was it only a part of her that she wanted people to see?

Because Sherlock was beginning to realize that the real woman that was Molly Hooper, was much like the fabled ice berg. Only the tip had she chosen to show, beneath the surface lay a vast part of her that Sherlock hoped to understand someday.

"You're here to investigate our Molly's murder, Mr Holmes?" Mrs Hooper set a cup of tea before him and gestured to the milk and sugar to indicate that he should help himself.

"Correct, Mrs Hooper." He carefully scooped two spoons of sugar and helped himself to some milk before stirring the tea with a tinkle of china.

"I don't really understand how we can help. Molly didn't really share that part of her life with us. The part that involved you, that is."

Mrs Hooper avoided eye contact and busied herself, setting out home baked biscuits, deftly lifting them with a spoon, and transferring them from the baking sheet onto a plate. The blame was heavy in the air but she was far too polite and far too proper to make a more direct accusation.

In his time, Sherlock had grown quite accustomed to blame. It was the price he paid for being so close to the death of loved ones and he had never let it bother him in the past. Why did this feel so different?

He watched her as she worked, deducing her to set his troubled mind at ease.

Mrs Hooper was a little taller than Molly had been. Her hair was predominantly gray, but with strong wisps of brown still present. Her hands were worn from work; she was indeed the gardener of the house. Though her hands were meticulously cleaned there was a slight green staining on her right forefinger indicating time spent recently pruning the greenery he had noted on his arrival. Her kitchen fairly shone with scrubbing. She took pride in this room, and her cooking and baking. She kept a full array of choices in pots and pans and utensils. They hung in neat racks that could put a chef's collection to shame.

She had a barbiturate habit, long-term by the prescription held by a magnet shaped like a banana on the refrigerator. Odd that her doctor would prescribe such an outdated antidepressant, but perhaps she took them for migraines? He also noted that she had a tremour in her hands, neurological condition, he thought. She liked to indulge in wine on a regular basis. Red. She didn't whiten her teeth and there was a slight staining, barely noticeable, but very common in those who regularly partake.

Sherlock thought she was a veritable collection of reasons and circumstances that lead her to believe she was life's victim. Depression, substance abuse, likely an adulterer before the death of her husband, he suspected, and riddled with guilt over the ways she had not lived her life to her perceived notion of perfection.

She sought validation through her children by throwing herself into their care despite their advanced ages, which Sherlock knew to be in their late thirties and mid forties.

Sherlock supposed her face had a subtle beauty, though he was not one to judge, considering the variables and personal preferences that came into play when making such an observation. Perhaps it was the resemblance to Molly that made him take any notice at all? He was still too confused by his own emotional reactions to make a call on this.

"Mrs Hooper." Sherlock calmly stated, "I've been led to believe that to find Molly's killer, I must search for clues in her past. I realize that this may be . . . difficult for you. Rest assured, I will catch the culprit and he will be appropriately punished."

Mrs Hooper pressed her lips together, averting her eyes again, seemingly transfixed by her tea. After a moment she spoke. "Will you be staying long?"

"I expect to remain in the city for several days. If you might suggest a hotel, I will take my leave and return later."

"Don't be silly Mr Holmes. You will stay here, of course. There's plenty of room and if it is Molly's past you want to know about, then this the best place to start."

They finished their tea and then Mrs Hooper insisted on giving a tour, starting with the heart of the business, the basement.

She led the way down a narrow stone staircase. She explained that there was an elevator on the other side of the house to bring the cadavers in with greater ease. The door had a large sign that forbade entry, but Mrs Hooper pushed it open and they emerged in the embalming room.

"This is terribly against regulations, Mr Holmes, but to know Molly, this room could hardly be overlooked." She spoke over her shoulder.

A man stood at the occupied embalming table. Once again the family traits were strong, the resemblance obvious. Sherlock knew immediately that this was Molly's brother. He was in his late thirties, and of medium stature. His hair was the same colour as Molly's and was neatly trimmed and styled. His nose was exactly like Molly's, as were his eyes. The similarities were uncanny. He had a small frame and a slim build. And like his sister, it would not be difficult to mistake him for much younger than his true age.

He wore white paper coveralls to protect his suit, from the task he was preforming. His goggles were perched on the top of his head, miraculously leaving his hair untousled, and on his feet he wore a pair of black wellies.

"Mum! What are you doing? You know you can't just bring people down here!"

The cadaver on the table had livid patches of deep purple on it's extremities and a cloth was draped primly over the genitals and another on the face. It was shrunken with age and long illness making it difficult to determine the gender despite the lack of clothing.

"Luke, this is Sherlock Holmes. Mr Holmes, this is my son Luke."

Luke's gaze darkened at the sight of the consulting detective. He was in the midst of washing the corpse with a disinfecting solution with a long hose topped with a nozzle that could be adjusted to direct the spray. He promptly turned off the spigot to turn his attention to Sherlock.

"If it would help with your paper work I could obtain a police order allowing my presence here." Sherlock offered.

"That won't be necessary, Mr Holmes." He took a clean sheet and gently draped it over the cadaver. "Though I can't discount the part you played in the death of my sister, I am forced to acknowledge your abilities of investigation. If you can find the man responsible for taking our Molly and perhaps recovering her body so we can put her to rest properly, then you are welcome in our home."

Sherlock wondered at how much the police had told them about Molly's death. The way they looked at him made it clear that they held him at least in part, accountable. That was fine because that is exactly how he felt. Guilty.

He explained to Luke his need to delve into Molly's past and the man thought on this for a moment before he replied.

"Mr Holmes, if you want to know who Molly was, this is the right room to start."


	3. Chapter 3

**_I know, this is so grim, but I loved writing this chapter. I hope some of you will enjoy reading it. Question - Can someone fall in love with a memory?Disclaimer - I don't own it._**

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><p><em>You asked me once, and I would give no answer,<em>

_How far dare we throw off the daily ruse,_

_Official treacheries of face and name,_

_Have out our true identity?_

_(Adrienne Rich - Stepping Backward)_

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><p>At the tender age of six, Molly Hooper knew about dead. The people Daddy worked on down in the basement were dead. And no matter what Tommy Clayworth from school said, dead was not something scary or spooky. She knew that because her Daddy had told her so.<p>

Molly had an older brother and an older sister. She also had a cousin named Nigel. Nigel was a big boy and he _was _scared of dead no matter that Daddy had told him that this was silly. Nigel avoided the basement whenever he visited. He pretended that it was because he thought it was gross, but Molly knew he was scared. She could tell he was just pretending so Luke wouldn't make fun of him. Her brother Luke was not scared. Neither was she. But whereas Luke had actually been down in the basement, Molly was not allowed to go down there yet.

Mum worried about her having nightmares like Nigel had, after seeing Daddy at work. He had awoken screaming one night, when he had slept over, that the dead man was coming up from the basement to take him away. But dead people don't get up and walk around. Molly's Daddy said he had worked with dead guys and ladies for twenty-five years and that had never happened, not even once. Any way, Molly just knew she wouldn't be scared. She wasn't silly like Nigel.

Mum said she didn't think it was exactly legal for the kids to be down there in the basement while Daddy was working, but he had just scoffed at that. Obviously that law was just another thing that Daddy considered silly!

Sometimes Molly and Luke liked to play funeral. Funerals were something they saw every week and so it seemed like a pretty good game to play. They would gather Molly's dolls, one of them would have to be the dead guy of course, and they would dress them up in fancy things. Molly's dolls didn't have too many dark clothes so they had to make do with pink because that's mostly what Barbies had to wear. But they could pretend they wore black. Molly and Luke were good at pretending, at least Mum always said they had very active imaginations.

They would lay out the dead Barbie (or sometimes Ken, but there was only one of him because Ken didn't have very interesting clothes.) in an empty tissue box and they would use some of Mums silk scarves to line it and to make a pillow for her head to rest on. The rest of the dolls would look upon the poor unfortunate deceased Barbie and they would say things like, "Oh, isn't it a shame?" and, "She was so young." or, "She was taken far too soon."

Sometimes Luke would get carried away – Mum said he was very dramatic. He would look off in the distance as he made his doll say, "At least she is beyond this vale of tears." and Molly would collapse into fits of giggles over that. Luke could be so funny!

Other times they would take some of Luke's cars and make a funeral procession. They would do it way in the back corner of the yard so none of Mum and Daddy's guests might see what they were doing and get upset. Daddy said it was very important to be sensitive to the mourners. Molly knew that sensitive meant no playing funereal in front of people coming to a real funereal.

The tiny funeral procession would lead to a graveyard they built in the dirt with rocks from the drive way as the monuments. They would bury sticks for the dead guys. Molly thought this a good fun game, but Luke would rather play with Molly's dolls so the didn't do that one very often.

One day, Molly made up her mind to see Daddy's work. Her sister, Rachel was allowed down there, but she was a big grown up girl, ten years older then Molly, and she worked with Daddy. She usually just did pick ups and drop offs, but sometimes she got to work with the make up, which sounded a lot like painting and Molly thought it was probably quite a lot of fun.

Luke had been brought down loads of times and he said it was no big deal. He planned to work with Daddy, too, someday. Molly really wanted to be like everyone else and see the basement where Daddy worked. And just like everyone else, she also wanted to work down there with her Daddy and Rachel and Luke. So she crept down the stairs and pushed through the doors and no one noticed she was there for quite some time.

Daddy was there and also his friend Carl, who helped out whenever things got busy. Jazz music was playing loudly and a cigarette dangled from the corner of Molly's father's lip. Molly thought that was another thing that was not legal. Mum did not approve of Daddy smoking at work. She said it wasn't respectful. But Daddy said that they didn't mind if he smoked. He had asked them and had yet to hear any objections. Sometimes Daddy could be funny, too.

Tommy Clayworth had said that Daddy's job was sad, but Daddy and Carl both danced around as they worked. People didn't dance if their work was sad. Even Molly understood this and so she began to smile.

A person lay on the table. Daddy called them cadavers, and a machine in the corner added to the noises in the room as it pumped pink fluid into the body. The pink fluid went in through a tube that disappeared in the man's neck, another tube spouted thick red stuff that looked like blood. It ran on the surface of the embalming table and down the drain at the end by the feet.

Molly remembered when she fell off of her bike once and cut her knee. Oh, that had bled. And it had hurt, too!

"Daddy, does he hurt?" She had asked.

Mr Hooper looked up from his work a little startled to see his daughter there. He crushed his cigarette out into a tray balanced on the edge of the embalming table, pulled off a latex glove and turned down the music. The only sound now was the pump and the running water that Carl ran, to rinse the blood down the drain at the foot of the table.

"No, Love. It doesn't hurt him any more. It's alright if you want to look at him."

Molly walked over to the table and looked upon the man there.

"See, Love? There's nothing to be afraid of. It's like he's sleeping, peacefully sleeping away. We're just cleaning him up and making him look nice for his family, aren't we Carl?"

"Indeed we are, Angel."

"He's smells like poop." Molly observed.

"He does a bit, doesn't he?" Her father agreed.

"Aye, it's the one truth in life." Carl observed. "We shite, both in life and death." He spoke with an air of wisdom.

Mr Hooper gave a long suffering sigh. Carl was known for his crude philosophies. "We defecate, Carl. If we're going to be honest, let's keep it scientifically accurate."

He turned back to Molly. "You see, Love, we're cleaning him up. Once we're done here, we'll have him smelling like flowers. Isn't that nice? I bet his family will appreciate that, don't you think?"

Molly nodded. It did seem important, didn't it? Making people nice and clean and pretty for their families? Molly thought that her Daddy's work seemed very important then. And she couldn't wait to tell Tommy that he was a dumb turd (Nigel had called her that once and she hadn't stopped using the word herself since, much to her mother's dismay) for being scared of dead guys.

After that day, Molly and Luke would sometimes bring her collection of dolls down to the embalming room and spread them out on Daddy's desk so they could play embalming. Their father would smile at their games as he stuck a cigarette into the corner of his mouth and continue on with his work.

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><p>Sherlock lay on Molly's childhood bed. Mrs Hooper had insisted that he take it and he was glad because he craved to learn every aspect of Molly Hooper. He lay there now and he could still smell her scent. She had visited often and stayed here frequently, so it wasn't any wonder that her sweet smell would linger, too.<p>

His mind conjured up images of a little Molly Hooper. Pictures around the house made this easy. He thought of the stories Luke told him. Molly playing comfortably amongst the dead, like other children might play at their father's office, pretending to be a clerk or accountant. Luke had talked for some time, as they sat in the chill on the dark porch, smoking cigarette after cigarette. As it turned out, Luke, unlike his father, had a somewhat firmer grasp of the law.

Some of the hostility had leached away, once the man started to reminisce, but Sherlock didn't expect any sudden friendship to develop between them. Still, his stories were quite illuminating and he could almost see that little girl in pigtails and dungarees, peering over a cadaver, all wide-eyed and innocent.

It was strange and yet it somehow suited her, though it differed drastically from what he would have imagined her childhood to be, that is if he had ever taken a moment to consider it at all.

If he gave it any thought at all he might have imagined her room brimming with a collection of stuffed animals, every surface in pink and pastels. He might have envisioned her clumsily attempting ballet classes though he knew she would be awkward and uncoordinated.

What he had failed to imagine was her comfort in a room filled with the sight and smells of death and her complete ease with it, going as far back as she could remember.

Sherlock tried to imagine if he would have been as comfortable with such a close proximity to death at such a tender age. On one hand, his superior intelligence was already quite apparent, though overshadowed by his brother at the time. In theory, he thought he had a fairly rational and realistic concept of death fairly early on. But would he have shown such a natural acceptance, as Molly had? He didn't want to admit it, but some how he knew he would have been terrified in similar circumstances. His acceptance of mortality and the inevitability of death, at least in regards to himself, came at a later age.

The image he had built in his mind, that was Molly Hooper, was already starting to crumble, but finding out who she really was, it was as tragic as it was compelling, for he would never have a chance to express his sense of marvel at this woman he thought he had known so well.

He held up his mobile which held a copy of the video and he let the images play for the hundredth time. He tried to watch her lips as she cried and begged, but her mouth was distorted in her sobbing. It made it difficult to read her lips.

He could make out what looked like . . . . _you . . ._ _my life for . . . promised . . . __dead__._

My life for his. He knew that was what she had said. She had made a deal. A horrible unthinkable deal. Why had she done it? It was supposed to be him that was marched off to execution, though knowing how Moriarty worked he suspected that was the plan all along. But Molly didn't know that. He knew that she believed that she was trading her life for his. What was the root of this stupid act of bravery? What was it's source? If he could somehow understand why she had done it, perhaps he could feel some relief from these unfamiliar feelings, this inexplicable pain.

He wanted to run away from his emotions. He wanted a hit. But that idea brought up images of Molly slapping his face and that became the only thing that prevented him from running off in search of a score.

He burrowed down into Molly's pillow that smelled of her hair. It would fade eventually and wasn't that just the perfect analogy for death? The memory that lingered was like a scent, it was fleeting. A generation would pass, along with the those who remembered. The smell would fade and there would be nothing left of Molly Hooper, nothing at all.

Sherlock breathed the smell, analyzing the components that made it uniquely Molly's scent. He committed it to memory and locked it away in his mind palace where he would forever be able to recall it, so that some day he might be lying in his own bed on Baker street and it would be as if she were still there perhaps just off to work, to return after, to his home, to his . . .

. . . And where did that thought come from? Such sentiment! It was so unlike him. But this case was unlike any he had taken previously. He wondered how he could get to the other side of this with any kind of satisfaction? The idea of killing Moriarty still appealed to him, but he knew that any sense of justice served would be brief. Molly would still be gone. How was he to process this?

Right now, the only thing that mattered was learning all he could about his friend. Who she was. What made her into the person he had known. But could that ever be enough?


	4. Chapter 4

**_Thanks ever so much for the reviews, favs and follows! I love hearing from you! Disclaimer - I don't own the characters and this is not for profit_**

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><p><em>We see each other daily and in segments;<em>

_Parting might make us meet anew, entire._

_(Stepping Backward – Adrienne Rich)_

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><p>The covers that had once cocooned Molly Hooper in the sweet repose of her youth, now covered a man who tossed them about, as he fell into a fitful sleep. Surrounded by her tenuous presence, Sherlock slipped quietly into a dream.<p>

In Sherlock's opinion, dreams were rarely useful. Granted, on occasion they could yield a glimpse at some repressed bit of information tucked away in the subconscious. But more commonly, it was a quagmire of suppressed emotions, too steeped in symbolism to be of any real value. It was for that reason he avoided sleep, if possible, when he was hard on the heels of the solving of a case. Emotions, he had always thought, must be isolated and segregated from the logical thought process. This was not possible in the unconscious realm of a mind at rest.

So when Sherlock found that he was seated in his chair back at Baker Street his first feeling was that of trepidation. His dream state was lucid enough to recognize it for what it was, but this knowledge gave him no relief from the intensity of the emotions he would be bombarded with in this state.

His hands were relaxed on the black leather arm rests of his old familiar chair. It was as if he could actually feel the texture beneath his palms; the leather, cool and smooth. There was a sense of urgency to this part of the dream. Sherlock was attempting to focus on some elusive train of thought and he was convinced that this would lead to the capture of Moriarty.

He thought of Molly, sobbing and crying, the necklace on its chain glinting with the reflection of a light in the room. He thought of the figure led to stand before the firing squad, the tremour in her hands revealing her fear. There was more in these images to disassemble, to examine each part frame by frame. However, each time he came close to pinpointing that elusive bit of evidence, the voice of a little girl drew his attention away.

"Isn't it a shame?" The voice said. Though he tried, the voice was impossible to ignore, for it evoked such feelings of loss and pain that the emotions clouded his thinking.

"She was taken far too soon." The little voice sighed, theatrically.

Sherlock looked up to find a six year old Molly sitting in John's chair. Her hair was messy and she wore jeans, and a purple shirt with some furry creatures wearing hats and spectacles, on the front. The words _Remember You're a Womble _were written beneath the whimsical characters. She grinned, showing off the space where she was missing her two front teeth. It caused a very slight lisp in her speech.

"I brought you a bag of fingers." She said with a sunny smile. "Daddy said I could."

Sherlock looked down at the bag she held out to him. When he looked back at her face he found himself looking at Molly returned to her proper age. She was wearing a lab coat with a smudge of blood on the right breast and she wore a spatter visor, but it was pushed up, perched on the top of her head.

"Oh fuck, Sherlock! You have the bloody Midas touch!" She exclaimed with a saucy grin, holding the bag of fingers out to him. The words sent a jolt, like electricity through his body. He tried to reach out and take the bag of fingers she offered but 221B melted away and she now sat next to him on a cot in a dank stone cell.

Now she was wearing that red dress with the tan cardigan. Her hair was loosely plaited to one side and she looked at him with such sorrow in her eyes.

"If you knew you were to die tomorrow, that this was your last night on Earth, would you have any regrets?"

Even in this dream state he resisted the emotions this scene evoked. It was very intense and he felt overwhelmed. He tried to answer, to tell her everything he would change, that the answer to that question was an emphatic _yes, bloody hell, yes! _But then she was being pulled from the cell, away from him. He wanted to snatch her back but it was too late, she was already on the other side of the bars.

"I'm not scared, Sherlock." Molly said as she was pushed out the door. "Remember that, okay? I'm not scared at all."

And then her face loomed so close, it filled his entire awareness. It was her eyes, those sad brown eyes looking back at him.

"My life for his." She seemed to whisper only the sound didn't come from her lips but from everywhere, it was all around him.

And then he jolted awake. He sat up in Molly's bed rubbing his face to try and clear it of the images.

Reaching for the bedside table, he checked his mobile and found that it was only 3:09 am. He had slept for little more than an hour. He lay himself down once again in hopes of finding the rest he desperately needed, but that was only followed by tossing and turning. Sherlock finally gave it up as a hopeless pursuit and rose before the sun.

The house was silent, quiet as a tomb, one might say, someone like Molly, who could never resist a grave-ish pun. Sherlock paced the room, stopping now and then, seemingly absorbed by some tiny detail in the woodwork or the shade of the lamp on the bed side table. This little room was once Molly's sanctuary, the little world with four walls papered in a pattern of flowers that had probably remained unchanged since the early 1950's. This is where Molly had spent countless hours planning her life, dreaming of her future, making her plans and preparing to set them in motion.

The walls revealed little evidence of being at any time plastered in posters of pop bands or school photos of old sweet hearts, held in place by colourful push pins. There were no tell tale tack holes, only a few family photos adorned the wall. He looked at a picture of Molly standing arm in arm with an older gentleman. Obviously her father, though so far, the Hooper children seemed to favour their mother.

Mr Hooper was quite different then Molly and Luke. He was tall and lanky, his face was long, and he had a patricians nose making his appearance almost regal. His hair was white, quite thick for a man of his years, and it was styled, neatly brushed away from his face. His side burns were a bit longer than was currently fashionable, otherwise he seemed quite well put together.

He studied the picture for some time before moving on to the closet. He opened the door, mindful of any noise the old hinges might produce, and peered inside. The most notable item of significance here, were the hangers filled with clothing in a style quite unlike anything Sherlock had ever seen Molly wear in all the years he had known her. Each out fit was draped carefully on its hanger. There in the privacy of Molly Hooper's bedroom, Sherlock stared at a sea of blacks and grays and navy.

He reached in and pulled out the first outfit his hand landed upon. It consisted of a simple black A-line skirt - it would likely have fallen primly past Molly's knees - and a matching blazer. This was Molly's funeral apparel. Every piece was unadorned with anything remotely decorative or flashy, every item was sombre and muted. How very unlike the Molly he knew who wore cardigans with pictures of fruit on them and trousers that seemed several sizes too big and busy patterned blouses in cheery colours. He wondered if all the years spent dressing herself as if she were attending a funeral had led to the unusual fashion choices that, to Sherlock, were Molly's hallmark? Substituting the sombre grimness for brightness, to effectively remove or distance herself from the more human aspect of death; it seemed as good an explanation as any. In fact Sherlock rather liked the logic of it.

He placed the suit carefully back on the bar and slowly drew his fingers across the collection of funeral attire, stirring them on their hangers. Would Mrs Hooper donate her daughter's clothing now that she was no longer there to wear them? Or would she hang onto them, grasping at the memory and pushing away the full acknowledgment of the permanence of the loss.

Another new image was forming in his mind of Molly wearing these sombre colours. Her hair would be pulled back into a plain and simple bun, perfectly tidy and unassuming. It wouldn't be considered proper if she wore here, that little smile that seemed always on her lips, as she went about her work at Barts. She would have to maintain a serious expression out of respect for the families that came to the funeral home at the time of their darkest hour.

The problem with this line of thinking was the direction it led. Sherlock recalled the times she hadn't smiled, the times he was the one who had done something to displace it. How he wished he could go back and change the things he had said to her! In fact he should have done everything and anything in his power to keep that smile there, where it should always remain.

And this was an utterly pointless line of thought! It only further proved his brother's point, the dangers in getting overly involved which had lead to these ridiculously complicated new feelings. One can't change the past. Any time spent considering the _what ifs_ and the _i__f onlys__, _was a waste of thought. Some how though, he was powerless to stop himself and instead he only lingered over every little insult, every cutting jab and he thought to himself, what was the point in all of that?

He dressed and left the room in search of caffeine. The thought of a cigarette and a hot drink outside seemed a fairly motivating notion. Fortunately someone had the same craving, as the strong smell of coffee greeted him as he approached the kitchen. That person was Mrs Hooper. She stood by the table, motionless, staring at a photo of Molly. In the picture, she looked to be twelve or thirteen and she was wearing her fringe teased up, her hair looked positively stiff from hairspray. She beamed a huge grin that revealed a slight overbite that Sherlock had never deduced by her more recent smiles, orthodontics had certainly been involved. But even so, it was disconcerting how he could see the woman so easily in that child's face.

Mrs Hooper didn't realize she was being observed and Sherlock sensed her private struggle with her emotions. It was odd that in this house that catered to the bereaved, how the inhabitants should be so reluctant to express their own sorrow beyond the sadness one could observe in their eyes. Perhaps dedicating a life to offering quiet comfort to others had lead to this subdued acceptance, as Sherlock had witnessed no emotional break downs, no wailing or weeping. Perhaps it was only due to the fact that he was a stranger in their midst, and they felt hesitant to let him see their guard lowered. But he felt that it was rather more likely that they were nearly as emotionally restrained as he was, himself. He imagined this was a necessity. An overly sentimental person would be destroyed by this job.

Mrs Hooper became aware of Sherlock's presence and he was able to actually witness her swallow the pain that threatened to break the glassy surface of calm acceptance. Of course, Sherlock would ever be able to see the pain behind her eyes, as she wore it just under the surface and could not be hidden away from someone with a scrap of perception.

"Oh, I didn't notice you there." She pulled the picture in close, hugging it to her body as she seated herself at the table. "Everything is there for coffee, Mr Holmes. Or I could make tea if you prefer?"

"No. Thank-you. Coffee is fine." He made himself a cup and sat down across from the woman.

She was wearing a green dressing gown and her hair was loose. It made the resemblance to her daughter, much more apparent and it took years from her face to see it fall around her shoulders that way. Dressed for sleeping, she seemed less closed off and pinched and more open then the previous evening. Still, her eyes tended to gaze downward, reluctant to meet with his own. She clung to the framed picture, her arms embracing the image of her child.

"May I?" Sherlock asked, gesturing to the photograph.

Wordlessly she relinquished her clutch and turned the picture around as she handed it across the table.

"I was just remembering the trouble Molly had with that bully from school, Mr Holmes." Sherlock gazed into the eyes of the child in the picture as Mrs Hooper spoke.

"Luke and Molly were both teased ruthlessly, when they were young. I guess living here made them seem unusual to some of the other children. You know how cruel kids can be."

"Indeed I do." Sherlock replied. He had experienced his own share of taunts and beatings due to his superior intelligence and blunt observations. It stirred a strong feeling of empathy and camaraderie for this young girl in the picture.

"There was a group of them that seemed determined to make their lives miserable, but there was one boy in particular. Alfie Walker was his name. Oh, he gave my kids such a hard time. Molly and Luke were always close. Luke was never the fighting type, but they looked out for each other, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock nodded as he studied the picture, the eyes hadn't changed, nor the tilt of her chin that seemed to invite challenge. He could almost see her facing down the school yard hooligan, not the timid pathologist but the strong willed mortician's daughter.

"I think Alfie was frightened of our business. You see, we buried Alfie's mother when he was just a little boy. Terminal breast cancer, if I remember correctly, always a terrible thing." She shook her head, pausing a moment before continuing.

"Some children come to accept death easier than adults. They can be incredibly resilient. But it isn't always the case, at least not for Alfie. It was after the funeral, when the teasing began." Mrs Hooper sipped her coffee and finally looked up at Sherlock.

"Do you ever come across anger displacement in your line of work, Mr Holmes?"

"It is always the risk when one permits oneself to be dominated by emotions, Mrs Hooper. I generally ignore anger that is directed at me. I know that at least seventy-five percent of the time it is a case of displacement." Sherlock shrugged. "Well, perhaps it is closer to seventy percent – I do seem to frequently piss people off."

This actually elicited a tiny smile from Mrs Hooper and Sherlock thought maybe there were more similarities between herself and her daughter than physical appearances.

"We explained to the children that Alfie's bullying was a case of misplaced anger. But of course, knowing the motive of your tormentor doesn't make it any easier to bear." She continued.

"No, it doesn't." Sherlock agreed.

"Luke was always a sensible boy. He knew how to avoid confrontation, but Molly . . ." Mrs Hooper trailed off.

Sherlock tried to imagine Molly all scrappy and defiant and proud. He had always written her off as timid, even faint-hearted, though this again, was a baseless belief. She had once said, on her blog, that he made her turn into a mouse. It was unsettling to realize that it was he, that had brought this out in Molly. He rather enjoyed the idea of Molly standing up for herself and facing down her opponents, no longer a mouse, but a lion.

More than anything, he wanted to know this Molly, for it was so much closer to her truest nature, the one he had overlooked, too full of his own preening and self importance. Now he could only do so through the memories of those who were closest to her.

He turned back to Mrs Hooper and through her voice, he came to know Molly the only way that remained for him now.


	5. Chapter 5

**_I don't know if it's the gray blandness of this time of year, but my brain is feeling sluggish and sleepy and writing is suddenly slow and difficult. Anyone else feeling this? I'm still enjoying this topic. Seems fitting for these dark days. I've learned many interesting things about the funeral business and the rituals we go through to help us deal with the reality of losing loved ones. I wonder if those who work in the business feel some relief because the fully acknowledge mortality? Or does it make one feel more fragile? Disclaimer - I own nothing and I make no money. _Isn't that the truth!**

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><p><em>We are a small and lonely human race<em>

_Showing no sign of mastering solitude_

_Stepping Backward – Adrienne Rich_

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><p>Some people might think that growing up in a funeral home would have to be an unusual experience. Molly Hooper didn't feel like it was strange at all. On the contrary, it was all that she had ever known, and therefore her very definition of normality. She was blissfully unaware that most people held certain beliefs about morticians, that choosing this as a career was somehow morbid or depressing. But the simple truth of the matter was, most chose this path from a very real desire to help people.<p>

Though Molly was strictly forbidden to come downstairs during visitations or funerals, out of respect for the friends and family of the deceased, she never gave a second thought about the embalmed and made up bodies laying propped up in their eternal beds as she passed through the deserted rooms in the early morning or late at night, whenever Mum sent her to tell Daddy that his supper was waiting for him, or that someone had called and left a message. It was just a part of normal childhood as far as she was concerned.

When Molly started school she had no idea that she was different in any way. And at first, neither did the other children in her class. The little ones didn't grasp what Molly's father did for a living and therefore, cast no judgment.

Well, there were a couple of exceptions. One was Tommy Clayworth, but that was all fear. He was always an anxious and sensitive child, who frightened rather easily. Molly just thought _he_ was the one that was a bit odd.

Then there was Alfie Walker.

Molly knew that Alfie's Mum had died, that he was having a hard time and she was mature enough to understand that. She knew if something ever happened to her Mum or Daddy, she would be terribly sad. She knew dying was normal, but she would still miss them all the same.

What Molly couldn't understand was why Alfie acted like it was their fault. They hadn't actually done anything to Alfie's Mum. Her Daddy only took care of her body after she had died. Molly knew a body was not the person, it was only what was left over after they were gone. Daddy's job was to make them look nice for their families. He said it was like having one last picture, which was especially important after a bad accident or a long illness. To see someone restored, whole once more, as if they were only asleep, well Daddy said it gave people something he called closure.

It was like Alfie blamed them for what had happened to his Mum. But they didn't give her the cancer. Cancer was something that didn't care about who got in it's way. It was cancer that was the monster.

But Alfie couldn't see that. He started teasing Molly and Luke soon after his mum's funeral. He would tease them at the park or school playground shouting mean verses at them in a taunting tone.

"_The worms crawl in and the worms crawl out,_

_The worms play pinochle on you__r__ scalp."_

Alfie would gather friends that were drawn to this ancient ritual of school yard domination. As typical with these types of bullies, Alfie held a certain sway over his peers. And isn't that just the way of it, though? Were not the evil doers throughout history at one time, nothing more than hurt and scared little boys and girls?

The children would circle around Molly and Luke and shout.

"_They eat your eyes, they eat your nose,_

_They eat the jelly between your toes."_

Molly had a hard time understanding the purpose of these verses. She wasn't the one afraid of being dead. That was Alfie. The song didn't scare her. For one thing, she knew that when she was done with her body, it wouldn't matter to her, what became of it. Also, Alfie had it all wrong about the worms.

"_Your stomach turns a slimy green,_

_And pus pours out like whipping cream."_

Well, Molly thought that was ridiculous. Worms didn't do that. Maggots might, but that only happens when there are flies around to lay the eggs. They didn't have flies in their home. Mum wouldn't tolerate that. Besides, it was microbes that caused most of the things in that song. Microbes and bacteria. Her Daddy had told her all about microbes and bacteria and how they had one last feast at the end. But when she tried to tell Alfie about that, he only told her that she was gross because she lived where dead people stay and that she should keep away or she might give everyone the worms.

And so, Alfie and his gang made life a misery for the Hooper siblings. Other children that might have been potential playmates learned to steer clear, if they wanted to remain outside the line of fire.

As the years passed, the abuse continued, though no more original then the worms verse.

"Oi! Looky what we got here! It's Pugsley and Wednesday!" Alfie would close in on the Hooper children, flinging his insults without a moment of consideration, always testing how far he could push and constantly testing the loyalty of his followers. If enough of them came along to join in on the fun, he would lead them on a rousing chorus of;

"_They're creepy and they're kooky. Mysterious and spooky. They're all together ooky. The Hooper family!"_

That would be followed by mocking laughter, jeers and the occasional hurled projectile – usually something scavenged from the ground, such as an acorn or a small rock. Molly and Luke became quite adept at dodging those, as they went whizzing by.

The biggest surprise was the day that Tommy Clayworth tried to stick up for them.

"Alfie, why don't you just sod off and leave them alone!" Tommy had shouted, though he couldn't hide the way it caused his adolescent voice to crack with fear. But this only brought Alfie's wrath down upon him, swiftly and brutally. Tommy went home that day sporting a black eye for his trouble, and an increased awareness of what happens to those who interfere.

Luke was two years older than Molly, and Alfie fell in the class in between the two young Hooper children. Though neither of them shared a classroom with him, Alfie made the school corridors, a nightmare and the school play ground, pure torture. But the true horror was always the walk home.

The Hooper children were constantly devising plans to evade their bullies after school. Outsmarting their tormentors in all honesty, was not a difficult thing to do, as the pair of them had vastly superior mental resources than the whole lot of Alfie's gang put together. Unfortunately the best laid plans were only a temporary reprieve. Eventually some one would cotton on to their method of escape, informing Alfie, (the lucky snitch would earn a special place beside Alfie for the week) and then things would get worse than ever, as punishment for trying to be clever.

There seemed to be no long term solution to the problem, though they tried everything from leaving school early, to staying late, to finding alternate routes home, but no matter what they did, eventually they would be found out. In the end, Molly and Luke found the only way to deal with their problem was to just keep their heads down and walk as quickly as possible, greeting the shouts and jeers in silence, bearing the abuse by moving through it, without response.

Molly found this to be utterly dispiriting. Luke was not a fighter, but Molly thought she might be, under the right circumstances. But whenever she mentioned the idea of fighting back, Luke seemed horrified by the idea and so Molly had held her tongue.

Eventually the day came when Luke moved up to secondary school. He hated the idea of leaving Molly on her own. He may not have been a fighter, but still, their had been comfort in his company, a partnership in commiseration. Now Molly would be left to her own devices, but there was little to be done for it, as it wasn't like he could stay back for two years just so they could advance together.

And to make matters worse, Alfie had been held back a grade and was now in Molly's class. There would be no break from the abuse.

At least, Molly thought, she had no reason to hold back any longer and she told Alfie quite clearly where he could get off. Unfortunately, this only encouraged Alfie, and he redoubled his efforts, giving her no peace.

Sometimes Alfie and his friends would catch up with her at the park near her house. This was the worst place to get cornered as the trees provided ample coverage, effectively cutting off views from the road and nearby houses. They could get away with so much in this setting.

"My, my, my Molly. Is that a new dress?" Patricia Hamby giggled. She was one of several girls that were part of Alfie's gang.

Molly hadn't really been paying attention to her surroundings. Her father had bought a new book for her. It was a Gray's Anatomy Coloring book. It sounded funny, but he assured her that medical students were finding it a great way to study, as it employed different areas of the brain and increased the ability to commit the components of human anatomy to memory. She was working on pulmonary circulation and she was looking forward to getting back home so she could continue.

That's when they jumped out from a dense growth of trees.

"She looks like the bride of Frankenstein!" Another girl joined in, eagerly.

"Fits, don't it?" Alfie asked, "Her old man's probably building her a boyfriend, in that basement of theirs. They're all daft there, right Molly? A right sick old arse, your Dad, playing with dead bodies."

Molly practically saw red. Daddy was a good man! How dare he say that about him! She tried to think of Alfie's poor Mum, but after all these years, this was wearing just a little thin and she found herself livid! She rushed at Alfie, ready to strike him but her arm was grasped at the wrist before the blow could fall, stopped by a big brute of a boy named Phillip. Molly couldn't recall his last name, but she wondered how a boy so big could still be in primary school and how many years he must have been held back.

"Don't even try it, Hooper."

After that, the kids called her names and she was pushed around until she fell to the ground, scraping both of her knees in the process.

When she arrived home, she had tried to sneak in through the back door to clean up her bloody knees in privacy, but Mum had come across her as she sat on the edge of the tub, washing the dirt from her scrapes. And though Molly had sworn that she had fallen by accident, her mother only shook her head sadly. She couldn't be fooled. Molly broke down and told the whole story and begged her not to get involved. She felt a fierce pride, she wanted to handle this her own way. But Mum would not hear it. She called the school and met with the teachers and parents.

The children involved were lectured and given detention and for awhile after that, Molly was left alone. But she felt as if a storm was brewing and she wondered how long it would be, before it would strike.

The next year, things actually seemed to improve. Most of Alfie's friends had moved on to secondary school and suddenly his gang was greatly reduced. In true bully form, he lost much of his power without his underlings.

But Alfie had not forgotten about her. He was only biding his time. And one day he saw his opportunity.

"Hey Morticia, did your Dad bring home any new friends for you to play with?_"_

Molly had avoided the park for months after the pushing incident. But lately she had started to use the short cut through the trees again. She was enjoying a peaceful walk home, happily strolling through the shady grove and that was when Alfie's familiar voice broke through the silence.

"Hey Morbid Molly, do you know what necrophilia is? Why don't you ask your Dad!"

She immediately cringed at the sound of his voice. After all the years of abuse, why had she let her defenses down, she wondered? Why had she chosen to walk through the park? As the mortician said, it was a grave mistake. Ha. Ha.

"Didn't you hear me Hooper? I said your Dad likes to shag corpses!"

Molly didn't reply or even look at him. She kept her head down and sped up her pace.

But Alfie wasn't about to let her go that easily. He came up behind her and grabbed her by the upper arm pulling her back. He spun her around so she had no choice but to look at him.

"Listen, Wednesday, you don't have Pugsley here to cry to. Not that he was much help. My cousin says he's a queer boy."

That was when Molly hauled back and punched Alfie right on the nose. She felt something crack in her knuckle as it connected with his face. She didn't even mind the pain much, as she thought she felt an equal crunching in Alfie's nose and judging by the way he let go of her arm to clutch at his face, it had certainly hurt him. She just had time to register his look of surprise and then she turned to run.

"Ow, the little bitch broke my nose! Don't just stand there! Grab her, Philip!" And there stood that big stupid brick wall of a boy that was the source of Alfie's courage that day.

He was big, and unfortunately he was also fast. Philip was on her before she could make it halfway across the park. He grabbed her, wrapping his meaty arms around her. Molly found herself completely immobilized. By the time Alfie caught up to them, his nose was gushing red.

"Look what you did, Vampira! I was planning to go easy on you. Now I'm thinking I'd like to see a little of _your_ blood!" Alfie instructed Philip to drag Molly into the trees.

Philip pulled Molly's arm up high, behind her back until her shoulder ached, but she refused to make a sound.

"You think you're pretty tough, don't you?" Alfie was swiping at his nose with the sleeve of his jacket, making it tacky with blood. As he did this, he walked a slow circle around Philip and Molly before returning to his position in front of her. Then he lifted an arm and slapped her sharply, with an open palm. The sound was loud.

Alfie laughed at the sound and raised his hand, slapping her a second time. Molly's cheek stung and tears welled up in her eyes, though she fought to prevent them from falling.

"I should really make you pay, Hooper. Let's see . . . " He seemed to pondert his for a moment. "Should we take a peek at your titties? Don't look like you have any from outside that jumper. Maybe we should have a little look-see just to be sure."

Molly's mind started racing for some mode of escape. Though Philip had her right arm pulled up painfully high behind her back, he had neglected to secure her other arm. Perhaps he didn't think her capable of putting up a fight beyond the initial punch. That was where they underestimated her.

Bending her arm, she drove her elbow as hard as she could into Philip's substantial, soft belly, effectively knocking the wind out of him. In his surprise he released the hold he had on her. Molly didn't give it a second thought, she ran as fast as her feet could carry her toward the busy street.

"Get back here, Hooper!" Alfie called after her and she could hear his feet close behind, gaining on her. In fact she could just feel his fingers brush the fabric of her jumper, when she was flooded with relief to hear a voice yell;

"Oi! What are you boys up to! Leave her be!"

Alfie and Philip scarpered off, as quick as could be, Philip limping and clutching his stomach, and Molly saw Carl running toward her. It was fortunate that there had been three intakes at the funeral home that afternoon and Molly's father had called Carl for help. It had been luck and timing that he happened to walk by the park before things had gotten even worse for Molly.

Molly had thrown her arms around the older man and she was trembling violently.

"There, there, Angel. You done good, by the looks of those boys. Always a fine spirited girl, you be. Let's get you home now." And Carl let Molly lean into him as he walked her home.

And in the end, though her family had pressed charges, the boys got off with little more than a stern warning. It turned out that the damage Molly had done the boys, in her attempt to defend herself was to her own damnation. Molly walked away from the attack without physical evidence of the abuse. Her cheeks had shown a slight reddening from the slaps, but that faded in no time. But Alfie had a broken nose (Molly's own broken knuckle didn't help her case) and Philip's belly was marked with a large ugly purple bruise from where Molly had elbowed him.

Soon they would all move on to secondary school, small fish in a bigger pond and Molly could fade thankfully into obscurity there. But she was proud of the way she had stood up for herself and she felt like a stronger person after that day.

She now knew that she would rather face down her enemy even if it meant she were to lose, rather than spend years trying to avoid confrontation.

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><p>The park was empty, abandoned in the wintery early morn. Sherlock sat on a swing, his legs far too long for this perch. He had scraped a hole in the dirt with his shoe heel and was using it as an ashtray. As he smoked, his mind played out the images of Molly's childhood.<p>

They had tried to beat her, but it had taken two big boys to even make the attempt. It was hard to think of Molly beaten down in such a brutal manner, but he felt an unexpected pride swell within him at her defiance.

She had stood up against the odds, her abusers both outnumbering and out-sizing her, but she hadn't let it stop her. He had always held the idea that Molly was a timid creature hardly made up of the stuff it took to take on a gang of bullies, but there once again he found himself proven wrong. He wondered how his deductive reasoning could be so far off target when it came to Molly Hooper.

And Sherlock couldn't help but to wonder how they would have gotten on as children. Some how he imagined he would have liked the odd little mortician's daughter, two children, ostracized by their peers, smart, strange and yes, as long as he didn't have to make this confession out loud . . . lonely. They would have found safety and comfort in one another's company.

Sherlock was becoming accustomed to these sentimental thoughts that he found himself succumbing to at an increasing frequency. Instead of fighting them, he permitted himself to fully immerse himself in this fantasy.

And strangely, it was a solace to his melancholy.


	6. Chapter 6

_**I am so slow at writing at this time and I apologize. I have also neglected to reply to all the lovely reviews you are leaving. I am so thankful for those who are reading this. I know it can't be everyone's cup of tea. I am afraid it must seem terribly morbid. I hope you believe me when I say there will be times when it isn't always so. I have immersed myself in the topic of death – in a less grim way than you might imagine. I highly recommend **_**Ask A Mortician,****_ a lovely vlog by mortician Caitlyn Doughty. She is so wise and comforting and a pretty funny lady to boot. Her book _Smoke Gets In Your Eyes and Other Lessons from the Crematory _is incredible! I can't praise it highly enough. Any way, here it is. I'm more than a little nervous! Eeks!_**

_**I don't own the characters.**_

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><p><em><strong>The most we can do for one another<strong>_

_**Is let our blunders and our blind mischances**_

_**Argue a certain brusque abrupt compassion.**_

_**(Stepping Backward – Adrienne Rich)**_

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><p>It was the numbness in his toes and in the tips of his fingers that brought Sherlock back to an awareness of his surroundings. Quite some time had passed in the park, any passers-by might have had cause for concern at his seeming catatonic state. Fortunately the park had remained deserted that morning, the weather proving to be far too bitter to entice parents to bring their wee ones to play out of doors.<p>

There he had remained motionless, undisturbed in that park, the very one where Molly had taken her stand against her childhood nemesis. Her trouble stemming entirely from the boy's inability to face the death of his mother, to except the reality of her demise. He did this by diverting his unresolved anger, his unvoiced grief and focusing it all on Molly and her brother because it provided the distraction he craved. And to what purpose? It did nothing to actually resolve his issues.

Molly, on the other hand was an anomaly of a child. She had no illusions regarding death. There was nothing, literally nothing shrouding her perception. It was an easy and natural acceptance for her. Sherlock thought it was quite an admirable quality, one he aspired to, himself.

Crime scenes had many methods of masking death, of playing a rather good game of slight of hand protecting the public from any sights deemed unacceptable for the general public. But from what were they really being sheltered? From coming to terms with there own temporary existence?

One of the first tasks at a crime scenes was to tape off a perimeter. This was as much to provide a distance between the average on looker from being visually assaulted by any unpleasant sights of blood or body parts, as to preserve evidence. Plastic sheeting was draped over the body. If the investigation meant not moving the victim for some time, a tent was often erected to provided more privacy. All this was done in the name of shielding the public's delicate sensibilities.

That was something Sherlock could never understand. Why did people deny their mortality? There was truth in his exchange with Major Sholto at John's wedding, regarding his attitude towards death. He truly believed that there was a proper time for death and that when that time came one should embrace it. It wasn't that he had some kind of death wish. Sherlock thought it was rather the opposite. It was those who feared death that seemed so powerless within their own lives, so overcome were they with fear. Sherlock's acceptance of his physical impermanence had freed and empowered him. How else could he be so at ease with the ever present danger in his life?

He flexed his fingers in the hope of getting the blood flowing properly and his breath came out in steamy white clouds. Too many cigarettes smoked that morning had left a stale taste in his mouth. John surely would have had something to say about that, but signs of impending labour, had required that John remain at Mary's side. Sherlock thought he just might have borne John's disapproval for the solid comfort of his presence.

He would hardly admit to himself just how much this case was affecting him. What was this melancholy he felt? It was so unlike him! He accepted death. He had no fear of it. He understood that Molly was no longer living in pain, there was no more suffering for her.

She was just gone.

He made his way carefully over a worn path through a dense copse of trees, stepping over exposed roots and the odd discarded beer bottle, and in a moment he was once again regarding the Hooper residence.

There it stood with it's vast lawn. It was a barrier, separating it from the neighboring homes, as if the houses themselves wished to create a distance between the living and the dead. Did the greenery not seem denser in the places where the properties met, creating a wall that provided both privacy and isolation? Could a more direct message be sent? It was clear that the neighbors had no wish to face the reminder of their own mortality which stared them in the face day in and day out, in the form of brick and concrete and stone.

And what an accurate symbol of Molly's life, this monument of loneliness, this macabre reminder, like a clock ticking down the days. It whispered it's warning, _someday this will be your fate._

Instead of using the front door, Sherlock slipped around back to find the service entrance. He was here to learn about Molly and the best way to do that was to immerse himself in the environment that had moulded her.

Sherlock found the garage, a spacious four car attached unit. The door was firmly shut and locked but he made short work of opening it. He silently stepped into the darkness.

Groping along the wall, he found a light switch and flourescent bulbs soon flickered to life overhead revealing two hearses parked there like dark sentries, all glossy, waxed to blinding perfection. A third vehicle was parked alongside, a plain white work van. It's purpose, Sherlock deduced, to transport human remains outside of funerals services or for what Luke had referred to as _pick ups _and _removals_. Arriving at hospitals and nursing homes in a hearse, he surmised, would be disconcerting for the living residents. The service van would be less portentous.

But it was a facade, like plastic sheeting at a crime scene. A plain white service van would blend with the thousands of identical vehicles as they carried their passengers to various job sites. But the fact remained that this one had a very different cargo. A plain white van, unlike a hearse was no symbol of death. It could go about it's grim business therefore causing no discomfort by its very existence.

Much like a cadaver dressed in it's finest, made up to look as if it were only sleeping. It was just another way to feed this need for death denial. It all seemed so plastic, so false.

As false as the image that Sherlock Holmes had held for years, of Molly Hooper. It was easier to reduce her to a few traits, characteristics to scoff at, rather than take her in as a whole person, capable of all of the complexities that came with being alive and human.

But there was still one place that dealt with death without pretense. With this in mind, Sherlock found the large service elevator at the back of the garage, its purpose to convey caskets and cadavers on wheeled carts and gurneys, down to the embalming room. He decided to explore the true nature of the funeral home which was the heart of the place; the basement.

The elevator was one of those old, cage type boxes with an accordion door. Sherlock stepped inside, shutting the gate until it clicked into place. He pushed the button and the elevator gave a jolting lurch before groaning into a laboriously slow descent.

The corridor below was dim and deserted and he set out to explore. A heavy duty steel door was to his left, the handle was the type that one must haul up hard, to unlatch. It had a tight insulating seal around the edges and the mechanized hum of a refrigeration unit could be heard, even through the thickness of that door. It was easy to guess the purpose of this room.

Curiosity impelled him to take a look inside and there he was greeted by the sight of a pair of feet sticking out from under a white sheet, toe tag affixed to the left big toe. The soles were mottled blue from pooled oxygen deprived blood. It was the only cadaver in the cooler at present, the room otherwise bare. The evidence of past occupants left their trace scent of freeze dried death despite the overlaying smell of industrial grade disinfectants. No pretense indeed! It was hard to put to words the way these feet clashed with the airbrushed finished product that was placed under soft pink lighting in the rooms upstairs. Sherlock closed the door, leaving the corpse to chill in its solitude.

The next door lead to a small room with a microwave and a fridge. Someone with a sense of humour that mirrored Molly's, had stuck a paper sign to the refrigerator that said _Party like a mortician. Grab a cold one. _Good God, it was genetic, Sherlock mused, a hint of a smile touching his lips. A few chrome chairs with cracked flowery-patterned vinyl seats, were placed around a worn Formica table. It was a lunch room, a place to take a little break from wiring jaws closed and inserting eye caps.

Further exploration lead him to find a storage cupboard stocked with chemicals and tools for embalming, a room with twelve caskets that stood upended, strapped to trolley carts, and finally, the door at the bottom of the staircase that lead to the embalming room. He heard someone working within and knew it was Luke by the sound of his gait. He decided to leave that door unopened, and climbed the stairs instead.

The sound of raised voices greeted him at the top landing and he followed the commotion to the source.

Along with the visitation rooms, the first floor also included several alcoves with comfortable seats and heavy brocade curtains that could be pulled closed, providing privacy for mourners in need of solitude.

They also functioned as consultation rooms.

It was from one of these alcoves in which the raised voices could be heard.

"He was my SON!"

"And he was my husband, Mrs Oliver. I know what he wanted! He would have wished the service to be held at the Buddhist Centre. You know he would have wanted that! To have his teachers send him on his journey to the sound of their chants, not to the preachings of your priest!"

"But Father Leone baptized Andrew! He was there for his confirmation! Why, when Andrew's father passed away, it was Father Leone who performed the Last Rites! I gave birth to him! He was my baby! He needs to be in our church, with our congregation and buried next to his father! Would you have me lain to rest without my baby, when it's my turn to go?"

Sherlock could hear the sound of a half stifled sob.

An exasperated sigh from the newly widowed woman could be heard behind the curtain. "Mrs Oliver, Andrew converted almost twenty five years ago! He was a Buddhist longer than he was a Catholic. I have every respect for your religion, but can't you see that while Catholicism may have been Andrew's church of birth. Buddhism was his faith of choice. It's like your completely disregarding a large part of who he was!"

A new voice interrupted the highly emotional exchange. Her voice was calm and soothing, the practiced tone of a life long funeral director.

"Mrs Oliver, I am sorry, but your son did sign and pay in full, a pre-arranged agreement. He requested cremation. He made no mention of cemetery interment."

"A cremation? What will Father Leone think?" The older woman sobbed.

"Mrs Oliver," said the funeral director, "The Vatican lifted it's ban on cremation 1963. Can I make a suggestion? If you both agree to this, his cremated remains could be interred in the family plot. It would fulfill your husbands request. Would this be acceptable?

There were only sniffles to be heard in response. And Silence.

"Perhaps we should continue this discussion later. In the meantime, I'm sure we can come up with a compromise in regards to the service. We have catered to many faiths in the past. We could arrange for the funeral to take place in one of our rooms. Mrs Oliver, if Father Leone is amendable, he may preside over the ceremony. Otherwise I do have contacts with several Catholic Priests that we have used in the past that are quite willing to do a funeral home service."

"Well . . . maybe. Father Leone did care a great deal for Andrew . . . I don't know . . ."

And Ms. Yueng, we're familiar with your Buddhist Centre and have had a good relationship with them in the past. The monks have preformed the funeral chants to many services here. Please consider this option, won't you? A combined service can be quite beautiful, I assure you."

Though Sherlock had remained motionless outside the curtain, the owner of the voice stopped as if sensing the intrusion.

"I'm sorry. Would you excuse me just for a moment?"

There was a muffled sound of feet on carpet and before he could move away, the curtain was suddenly drawn back.

For the first time Sherlock came face to face with the furious gaze of Rachel Hooper.


End file.
